CHAPTER IX.
WE FIND OURSELVES ON A DESERT ISLAND, AND LITTLE COMFORT BESIDES.
After a while we returned to the place where we lay during the night; and, looking about us, found that the cruel Cazique had taken away the keg of powder, the puncheon of rum, ay, the very bread we had brought for our refreshment on landing; thus robbing us of our present subsistence and the means of procuring other.
Seeing this, Sir Harry threw himself on the sand and sobbed out aloud; for as yet he had suffered never any hardship or disappointment. But it was otherwise with me, for many a time had I endured privation and known no hope. Yet did it move my heart to see a strong man, and one naturally light of heart, gay, and of high spirit, so abased; so I sat down beside him, and, laying my hand on his shoulder, spoke such comforting words as my tongue, unused to such exercise, could command. And this may seem strange, seeing that hitherto I had borne him no love, but rather jealousy and hatred. But you shall notice that misfortune doth engender kindness in hearts the least susceptible, so that a man who would jostle another and show no manner of kindness and civility, both being strong, would yet bend down and gently succor him who fell across his path from weakness; for our sympathy is with those weaker than ourselves, and not with those of equal hardiness; and this, I take it, is the reason of the great love of strong men for weak women, and the wondrous tenderness of women for those cast down by sickness.
Sir Harry would not be comforted; but shaking my hand from his shoulder he cries:
"'Tis easy to bear the misfortunes of other people!"
"Nay," says I, "am I better off than you?"
"Ay," says he, "for you have but changed one form of misery for another. These woods for you are as good as those you left in Cornwall. Your prospects here as good as they were there. But I! what have I not lost by this change! All my fortune was embarked in those ships; and with them I lose every hope—fame and riches—my sweetheart. All! all! What now have I?"
"The hope of getting away from this place; the hope that—that she may wait faithfully your return."
"And what if, by a miracle, I get from here, can I hope to recover my fortune? I must go a beggar back to England; nay, a debtor for the ships of Sir Bartlemy that I have lost. And think you if my sweetheart in pity would make me her husband, I would be her pensioner, dependent on her bounty for the bread I eat?"